Ah, the sweet, stagnant air of North Lake Town in Shimovit District. It's been three years since I planted my roots here, in this godforsaken suburb on the outskirts of Europe's forgotten corner. The city proper buzzes with life, money flowing like wine in those upscale districts, but out here? It's my playground, a desolate stretch where the population thins out like blood draining from a fresh cut. I remember when I first arrived—fresh out of med school, diploma in hand, all those years dissecting cadavers and learning the intricacies of the human body. Little did they know, my education was just beginning.
My name is Luna, and at 25, I've already carved out a life that's richer than most could dream. Not from some cushy hospital job, oh no. That's for the weak, the ones who play by the rules. Me? I deal in the black market of flesh—organs harvested fresh, sold to the highest bidder. It's lucrative, you see. One kidney here, a heart there, and suddenly I'm living in this sprawling villa, three stories of luxury perched on the edge of a deep artificial lake. The kind of place where neighbors are miles away, and screams? They just echo into the night, swallowed by the water.
It's afternoon now, my favorite time. I slip into my routine like a second skin. First, the makeup—thick, unapologetic. Black lipstick smears across my lips, tasting like sin as I lick the excess. Eye shadow dark as midnight, framing my gaze that could pierce through steel. I stand before the mirror in my third-floor bedroom, admiring the tattoos that snake across my skin: a coiled serpent on my thigh, thorns wrapping my arm. In public, I cover them up, play the part of the innocent graduate. But here, alone? They're my badges of honor.
I choose my outfit carefully today. A short, sexy skirt that hugs my hips, black as my soul. Then the stockings—thick, black silk that clings to my legs like a lover's grasp. I roll them up slowly, savoring the sensation, the way they make my skin tingle. God, I crave this. If I go too long without it, the itch starts, deep in my bones, like withdrawal from my other vices. Speaking of which, I slide on my black over-the-knee boots next, the leather creaking as I zip them up. They make me feel powerful, towering, ready to crush whatever—or whoever—gets in my way. Finally, the gloves. White medical latex, fresh from the pack. I snap them on, the sound echoing in the room like a promise of what's to come.
Descending to the sunroom, I settle into my chair, the sunlight filtering through the glass like a mocking halo. Afternoon tea time—my sacred ritual. I light a cigarette first, the flame dancing as I inhale deeply. The smoke fills my lungs, a warm burn that chases away the boredom. I exhale slowly, watching the tendrils curl toward the ceiling. Next, a glass of red wine, deep crimson like fresh blood. I sip it, letting it stain my lips further. And the betel nut—chewy, bitter, addictive. I pop one in, chewing methodically, the juice mixing with the wine in a heady rush. Two hours of this bliss, uninterrupted. No one dares disturb me here.
But even as I relax, my mind wanders to the basement. The negative first floor, my laboratory. Up here, everything looks normal—plush furniture, art on the walls that I stole from some victim's home. Down there? It's a symphony of tools: scalpels, saws, restraints. I've got everything a girl could need for her hobbies. Experiments, you know? Like seeing how long a heart can beat outside the body without machines. Or just plain torture, drawing out the screams until they fade to whimpers. The victims—oh, they're my playthings. Kidnapped, drugged, dragged here under the cover of night. And when I'm done? The lake claims them, weights tied to their limbs, sinking into the depths. No evidence, no traces. Perfect.
This town used to be alive, teeming with people flowing in and out. Now? It's a ghost town, thanks to me. Over a dozen murders, twice that in disappearances, all unsolved. The locals whisper about a curse, lock their doors at dusk. TV broadcasts warn travelers to steer clear. I chuckle at that, chewing my betel nut harder. They have no idea it's little old me, the quiet girl who occasionally shows up in town dressed normally, blending in. No one suspects the medical graduate with the sweet smile.
As the sun dips lower, my tea time winds down. The cravings stir again—not just for silk or smoke, but for something deeper. Sex addiction, they call it. I head back to my room, shedding the skirt but keeping the stockings and boots on. My drawer overflows with toys: vibrators, dildos, things that twist and pulse. I lie back on the bed, gloved hands exploring, the latex cool against my heated skin. One orgasm, then another—twice a day at least, sometimes three. But when the hunger gnaws too fiercely, I turn to my "hunts." Those poor souls in the lab become my outlets, their bodies vessels for my release before I end them.
Tonight, I feel the urge building. It's been a week since my last one—a young woman who'd wandered too close to the suburbs. I'd observed her for days, flipping my coin to decide her fate. Heads: quick death. Tails: bring her home. It landed tails, so I befriended her, lured her with promises of a party. Drugged her drink, dragged her here. In the lab, I stripped her, bound her to the table. The vivisection was exquisite—cutting while she was awake, watching the life drain from her eyes. Her heart still beat in my hands for minutes after. Then, into the lake she went.
I need a new one. Finishing my self-pleasure, I wipe my hands on the sheets, the gloves sticky now. Time to plan. I dress down for reconnaissance—normal jeans, a sweater to hide the tattoos, no makeup. Drive into town, the roads empty as always. The fear I've instilled is palpable; shops close early, streets deserted. Perfect hunting grounds.
I park near the edge of the district, where a few stragglers still linger. There's a bar, dimly lit, patrons nursing drinks like it's their last. I slip in, ordering a whiskey—straight, no ice. The burn matches the one in my veins. Scanning the room, my eyes land on him: mid-20s, alone, looking lost. Handsome in a pathetic way, with that vulnerable air that screams "easy prey."
I approach, flashing a smile. "Rough day?" My voice is honeyed, disarming.
He looks up, surprised. "Yeah, you could say that. Just moved here for work. Town's quieter than I expected."
I laugh softly, sliding into the seat next to him. "It's got its charms. Name's Luna. You?"
"Mark," he says, relaxing a bit. We chat—small talk about the city, the economy booming downtown. I spin lies about my job as a nurse, helping people. Irony at its finest.
As the night wears on, I flip my coin mentally—heads or tails? But no, tonight I'll observe first. Slip a tracker on his coat when he's not looking? Or just follow him home? Decisions, decisions.
We part ways outside, him stumbling a bit from the drinks. I watch him go, my heart racing with anticipation. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after. I'll watch, learn his routines. Then, when the moment's right—drug him, bind him, bring him to my domain.
Back home, I shed the disguise, back into my true self. Black satin gloves this time, sliding over my arms like a caress. I descend to the lab, just to check. Empty now, but soon... I run my fingers over the tools, imagining his screams. The thought sends shivers of pleasure down my spine.
Lying in bed later, cigarette in hand, I reflect on it all. Why do I do this? Because I can. Because the rush of power, of taking life, is better than any drug. Medicine taught me the fragility of the body; I exploit it. No remorse, no guilt. Just pure, unadulterated joy.
The town fears the unknown killer. Little do they know, she's right here, sipping wine and planning her next masterpiece.
But enough introspection. Time for action. I crush out the cigarette, chew another betel nut, and plot. Mark, was it? You'll do nicely.
The next day dawns gray, fitting for this forsaken place. I wake early, the addiction pulling me from sleep. First, a smoke—always. Then coffee, black and strong, laced with a shot of whiskey. My dependencies are my constants, woven into every moment. Without them, I'd unravel.
I dress for the day: JK uniform today, crisp white blouse, pleated skirt. Black stockings, of course, and those boots that click authoritatively on the hardwood floors. Gloves—rubber, for that clinical feel. I feel alive in this attire, like a predator in sheep's clothing, though the sheep part is a lie.
Driving back toward town, I spot him again—Mark, heading to what I assume is his job. Some office drone, probably. I tail him discreetly, my villa's distance giving me the advantage of anonymity. He stops at a cafe, grabs a coffee. Alone, no friends yet in this new place. Perfect.
That night, I decide. Coin flip: tails. Bring him home.
I "bump" into him at the bar again. "Fancy seeing you here," I say, all smiles.
He grins. "Small town, huh? Join me?"
We drink, talk. I lean in, whispering promises. "I know a quiet spot, better drinks at my place."
He's hooked. In the car, I offer him a spiked bottle— "Special brew." He sips, passes out.
Dragging him to the lab is easy; I'm stronger than I look, years of handling bodies paying off.
He wakes bound to the chair, groggy. "What... where am I?"
I circle him, gloved hands trailing his face. "Shh, darling. You're my guest."
Panic sets in. He struggles. I laugh, lighting a cigarette. "Let's play."
From my bag, a fresh plastic bag. I slip it over his head, tape it tight at the neck. He gasps, air thinning. I watch, inhaling smoke, the sight arousing.
Seconds pass. He thrashes. I press the cigarette to the bag, burning a hole. Smoke floods in; he chokes, tears streaming.
Bored now. A kick to his gut, then the hammer—crack against his skull. Still alive? Good.
But patience wanes. I pull my gun, press it to his temple. Bang.
Blood sprays, warm on my gloves. Ecstasy.
Clean up is routine: dissect, harvest organs—liver looks prime. Sell later.
Body to the lake, weighted down.
Another night, another victory. The town grows quieter; I grow bolder.
This is my life, my story. And it's just beginning.
Wait, let me dive deeper into her thoughts, extend scenes.
As I sink the body, the lake's water laps coldly against the shore. I stand there, boots sinking into mud, smoking another cigarette. The moon reflects off the surface, hiding the graveyard below. How many now? Fifteen murders, twenty-five missing? I've lost count, but each one feeds my soul.
Back inside, I strip, showering off the blood. The hot water cascades, mixing with my arousal. I touch myself again, reliving the kill—the fear in his eyes, the final twitch.
Drying off, I slip into black latex bodysuit, tight as a second skin. It clings, amplifying every sensation. Down to the lab, I clean the tools meticulously, the scent of bleach mingling with my wine.
Reflecting on my past: university days, dissecting frogs, then cadavers. But they were dead—boring. I craved the live ones, the screams. First kill was accidental—a classmate who annoyed me. Pushed him down stairs, watched him break. Thrill ignited.
Graduation, move here. Fresh start, new hunts.
The addictions grew: silk, boots, gloves from childhood fetishes. Smoke, alcohol, betel from teen rebellions. Sex from... well, everywhere.
Now, it's all intertwined. A kill without the attire feels incomplete.
Tomorrow, perhaps another. Or an experiment—see how long sans air with twists.
I smile at the mirror, black lipstick smirking back. I'm untouchable.
The district's economy thrives, but here? My domain of death.
I chew betel, sip wine, plan.
Days blend. Afternoon tea: skirt, stockings, boots, gloves. Smoke curls, wine flows, betel chews. Bliss.
Then self-pleasure, intense, multiple peaks.
Hunt: observe a woman this time. Coin: heads. Snipe from afar.
I set up rifle, hidden in woods. She walks alone at dusk—foolish.
Aim, fire. Headshot, clean. Body left; let them find it, add to fear.
Rush home, masturbate to memory.
Another day: kidnap teen. Lab torture—cut slowly, vivisect.
Screams music.
Harvest eyes—rare commodity.
Lake claims rest.
My wealth grows; villa upgrades—new tools, finer wines.
No friends, no need. Solitude my ally.
Occasional public outings: normal clothes, chat with locals. They fear the killer; I nod sympathetically.
Inside, laughter.
This chapter sets the stage: my world, my rules.
Scene: In the lab after kill.
I stare at the body, gun still warm. Blood pools, metallic scent intoxicating.
Gloves slick, I cut into him—scalpel gliding through flesh. Heart first, still warm. I hold it, feel the last beats.
Then kidneys, liver. Pack in ice, contacts waiting.
Clean up: bleach, mop.
Upstairs, wine to celebrate.
Thoughts: Why this life? Because society is weak, I am strong. They deserve it—their mundane lives beg for end.
My fetishes fuel me: silk on skin, boot heel on throat, glove snap before cut.
Addiction? Yes, but embrace it.
Another cigarette, betel.
Sleep comes, dreams of blood.
Wake to new day, ready for more.